The amorous firefly led them at that hour,
O'er wooded hills, and marshes deep and long,
To their sweet rest, which sank, with grateful power,
Along their wearied nerves, in their wild, oaken bower.

As flows the stream, with calm, unruffled wave,
O'er shining sands, to kiss the glassy main,
So flowed the life their gracious Maker gave,
Nor felt the obstructive power of obvious pain;
So deep o'er them was Passion's rapturous reign,
That mid their bower's delicious solitude,
They dreamed their hearts might never sigh again;
By love their gentle spirits were subdued,
To the deep rapture of a heavenly seeming mood.

Alas! the race of Pocahontas flow,
As waves, away, which can return no more;
No more o'er plain and peak they bear the bow,
Or shove the skiff from yonder curving shore;
Their reign, their histories, their names are o'er;
The plow insults their sires' indignant bones;
The very land disowns its look of yore;
Vast cities rise, and hark! I hear the tones
Of many mingling Tongues; and boundless labour groans.

And paler nymphs are sweetly wooed and won,
Upon this soil, and they are happy too,
But of these fairer English damsels, none
Have shown devotion more divinely true,
Than thou, untutor'd maid of dusky hue;